["Hope in reality is the worst of all evils, because it prolongs the torments of man." - F. Nietzsche]



A slow aching, bled dry of pain. 

The pace of life sedates the sane. 



Lure me into the fury of absence, 

let my train of thoughts collide. 

In a trance of confidence, 

stirring up, I breathe cyanide. 



Drawn in my horns, a stabwound slow-dance. 

Holding on to a dog's fair chance. 

A slow aching, bled dry of pain. 

The pace of life sedates the sane. 



I myself, I am a cold element, 

but I contain a living flame. 



Fading in, fading out, 

last visit for a long time. 

While a legend lingers, 

we pine away, into clime. 



The wish is father to the thought, 

the thought is father to the truth. 

Ignite the imagination and take it far away. 



I grieve over things that end, 

nothing in line to succeed them. 

They become a part 

of the horrors I hold in my heart. 



Neatly pealed all layers off, 

searching a stain to expose, 

lay bare imperfection, 

grow aversion, then dispose. 



Now your self is bare, 

in an instant flare, 

if you have tears, 

cry elsewhere.